


nock

by leiascully



Series: I Like You Under My Skin [7]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 07:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surprisingly, it's Natasha who encourages Clint and Phil to have The Talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nock

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: AU  
> A/N: As usual, this is for Coffeesuperhero and her feelings.  
> Disclaimer: _The Avengers_ and all related characters are property of Marvel Studios and Joss Whedon. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

"Now what?" Natasha asks. She's sitting on the other end of the couch in Phil's office, her feet in Clint's lap, generally being obnoxious.

"I was going to do paperwork," Phil points out. "You two could go to the gym or something. Superhero stuff. Leave the mere mortal to filing the everlasting forms required by your superhero missions." 

"Not for me," Natasha says, giving Phil one of her patented Looks, which of course rolls right off Phil's tiny enigmatic smile. Nobody can out-Look Phil, Clint thinks fondly. "For you guys. The two of you. Together. As a couple," she clarifies, completely unnecessarily.

"Gosh, Nat, why don't we stay up all night painting each other's toenails and then we can squeal about how Phil and I totally had the DTR?" Clint teases her. She draws her foot back and kicks his thigh. From Phil's desk, Clint hears the sound of surreptitious Googling.

"Clint, you want to restore your foreskin?" Phil asks, and there's a little horror in his voice. Clint imagines the pictures Phil must be seeing and cringes. 

"Baby, I told you, Urban Dictionary isn't always right," Clint says patiently. 

"This is not...oh, God," Phil says. 

"DTR," Natasha says. "Define the relationship." 

"Urban Dictionary was right this time," Phil says faintly. "How did you...?"

"I've spent an awful lot of time in hospital waiting rooms," Clint says. "The reading material is not always my first choice. Why are you so wrapped up in this, Nat?"

"I decided I want to be a bridesmaid," she says, shrugging. "And let's face it, Tony and Pepper, _if_ they ever tie the knot, are going to have some huge unbearable wedding or jet off to Casablanca and elope. You guys are my best hope here."

"You," Clint says in stark disbelief. "You want to be a bridesmaid."

She shrugs. "Why not? I'm not planning to be a bride. Maybe I like weddings. I've never been to one. I mean, not as an invited guest. Could be a fun party."

Clint stared at her. "Did you get replaced by an LMD? Did somebody swap out your programming with Lewis'? Am I talking to Natasha Romanov right now?"

"What Clint's trying to say is that you don't display the usual range of human emotion," Phil says, his voice dry. "Unless you're trying to get something. It seems improbable that you would enjoy weddings, which are notoriously emotional events."

She makes a finger gun at him and pretends to shoot. "Back at you, Phillip. And yet, here we are."

"Yes, here we are," Phil says. "In my office."

"Is he always this literal?" Natasha asks. Clint nods. "How do you deal with him?"

"He's good in bed," Clint says with a shrug. "And in the kitchen. And pretty much everywhere." 

"Here you are," Natasha continues, "floating along on the puffy pink cloud of your true love, and you won't even set a date so that I can pick out a dress and decide which of your ushers I'm going to seduce."

"Well, when you put it like that," Phil murmurs. 

"Is it pink?" Clint asks. "I thought it was a nice maroon color. Manly."

"Don't succumb to societal heteronormativity," Phil reminds him. "There's nothing unmasculine about pink."

"Seriously?" Natasha asks. 

"Seriously," Phil assures her.

"I mean seriously, you say things like that," Natasha says flatly.

"Constant vigilance is necessary to prevent the evils of the world from overwhelming us," Phil tells her calmly. "Whether they come from the laboratory or the mind. There are crimes that don't involve explosions or visible wounds. I know you understand that, Natasha."

"He's in a mood," Clint advises her. "We should leave him to his paperwork."

"We're going to have this wedding discussion again soon," Natasha promises, letting Clint push her off the couch and onto her feet.

"I look forward to it," Phil says, squinting at his computer screen.

"You're a better man than I am," Natasha says on the way to the gym. "Which, by the way, is a figure of speech, so don't start with me."

"I'm familiar with your ways," Clint says. 

"I couldn't put up with Mister All Protocol, All The Time," she says.

"That's because you're bad to the bone and because you don't know what's good in this world," Clint tells her comfortably, bracing his feet. He gestured to her. "All right, come at me." 

They spar for a couple of hours and then go their separate ways, Natasha off to God-knows-where and Clint to meet Phil. Phil promised him dinner and Clint never turns down a free meal. Phil always looks great in the kitchen, just as cool and competent as he is in the field. Clint can cook a little, but he never feels like he's in control the way he is when he's nocking an arrow onto his string; something's always burning or salty or bland. He has endless patience when he's perched in his hideaway, stalking his target, but not when he's waiting for water to boil. Phil, on the other hand, can wrangle cranky superheroes all day and still put real, adult food on the table at a reasonable hour.

Besides, these days after dinner, Clint frequently gets laid, which is definitely a bonus.

This evening, dinner is some kind of salad Phil calls panzanella - chopped up vegetables and toasted bread with olive oil and vinegar, which sounds disgusting, but which turns out to be delicious. Clint saves a chunk of bread and soaks up the last of the dressing from Phil's classy wooden salad bowl.

"That was amazing," Clint says, stifling a burp. "How is it that everything sounds terrible until you get involved? I'm talking missions _and_ salads here. It's like the Midas touch. The Coulson touch. You get involved and even the most half-assed ideas look brilliant."

Phil smiles. "I'm detail-oriented."

"You sure are," Clint says, waggling his eyebrows. 

"How was the gym?" Phil asks, picking up the dishes and putting them in the sink. 

"She got me to the mat ten times," Clint tells him. "I got her eight. Business as usual. She'll hurt tomorrow, though."

"And you won't?" Phil asks, one eyebrow raised as he opens the fridge. 

"Of course I will," Clint says. "But I know a guy who gives pretty good backrubs." He gave Phil a suggestive look.

Phil snorts and closes the fridge. He has a pie dish in his hands, Clint notes with interest. "You could just ask, Barton," Phil tells him.

"That's not as much fun," Clint says. He gets up lazily, a little stiff even after his long hot shower, and grabs a couple of saucers and forks. "Ooh, chocolate pie. You do love me."

"I do," Phil tells him, offering Clint a kiss, which Clint never turns down. The slices Phil cuts are large, further indication of his love, Clint thinks with satisfaction, and he tries to eat it slowly, but doesn't quite manage. Still, it's good, and he leans back in his chair with a happy sigh.

"I can't believe Natasha wants to be a bridesmaid," he says to no one in particular, even though it's only him and Phil. "I guess she'll always keep me on my toes."

"That's kind of her job," Phil reminds him.

"Yeah, but," Clint says. "She's not usually interested in romance. Anyone's. Sex, yes. Romance, no. I don't think she even knows the word 'committment' except maybe when it comes to insane asylums."

"She's right, you know," Phil says, still taking small bites of his pie, savoring each morsel in a way that makes Clint want to push Phil on top of the table and kiss him hard. "We haven't had the relationship talk."

"Do we need to?" Clint leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, which Phil hates. "I thought we were good."

"We're fine," Phil says briefly. "That's not what the talk is for."

"I wouldn't know," Clint tells him. "My relationships haven't been known for longevity." He thinks about it. "Pretty sure most of them couldn't even be called relationships, really."

"Nevermind," Phil says, and his smile is so sweet and so rueful at the same time that Clint wants to make it better, whatever he's done wrong. 

"Do you want to?" he asks. "Do you want to talk about our relationship?" A thought occurs to him. "We're in a relationship, right?"

"I thought so," Phil says in that dry voice he uses when he's trying not to sound hurt or upset. 

"How's that going for us?" Clint asks. "Seems good to me, but I'm no expert."

Phil relaxes just a little. "It's good." He offers Clint a wry smile that makes Clint's chest ache. 

"What's the timetable for this operation?" Clint asks. It's easier to talk about this as if it's a mission. It hurts too much otherwise, to think about this thing between them going sour or ending. 

"Did you want to put a timetable on it?" Phil asks, looking at the remains of his pie and stabbing a morsel with his fork.

"No," Clint says immediately. "No."

"Then as far as I know, it'll continue indefinitely," Phil says and then adds quietly, "I'm not ending it."

"God, Phil," Clint says, letting his chair hit the floor with a bang. Phil winces. "Is that what you thought I was saying?"

Phil looks at him and says nothing. Clint pushes himself out of his chair and goes around the table, kneeling next to Phil. 

"Phil Coulson," he says fiercely, "if you think for one second that I would give this up, then you don't know the first damn thing about me."

Phil looks down at him, hope and stress and pain and love in his eyes, and Clint braces his hands on Phil's chair and pushes up to kiss him. He kisses Phil with all the strength and passion he can muster, nipping and shoving at Phil's mouth, demanding that Phil kiss him back. Phil's hand comes up to cradle the back of Clint's head and joy rises in him, rough-edged and overwhelming. He rests his forehead against Phil's, breathing hard from the intensity of the kiss and the effort of keeping all of that happiness inside the limits of his skin. Phil's fingers ruffle through Clint's hair. Both of them are shaking a little bit.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell what's going on inside that head of yours, Barton," Phil says, but he sounds relieved.

Clint snorts. "This coming from Agent Poker Face himself."

"Is that what they call me?" Phil asks. "How charmingly inaccurate."

"Boss, it took me until halfway through our first date to realize that you were actually flirting with me, so don't pretend like you aren't pleased with yourself right now," Clint scolds. After that kiss, he _wants_ Phil, desire as rough and welcome inside his skin as his happiness is. 

"Sorry," Phil says, still stroking Clint's hair. "I won't leave you out in the cold from now on." He leans closer, his lips almost brushing Clint's. "I'm flirting with you."

Clint rolls his eyes and stands up. He jerks his thumb toward the bedroom. "Get up, Coulson. I have some apologies to make and mouth-to-cock is the most effective way to get this message across."

"I keep telling you to use your words, Barton," Phil says, taking his sweet time to walk across the room. Clint stands behind him, nudging Phil along, letting Phil know exactly how desperately Clint wants to apologize.

"I'm much better with my mouth," Clint growls. 

Phil has toed off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt by the time they reach the bedroom. Clint helps him with the rest, handling Phil's clothes as roughly as he can without actually doing harm to them. He has the presence of mind to toss Phil's suit trousers over the chest at the end of the bed - he's seen the receipts from D&G, and he's not risking anything. At least the rest of Phil's clothing is short work.

"Well?" Phil says, leaning on his elbows in the bed. He's definitely smiling now, and there's not a hint of unhappiness in his eyes. That's exactly the way Clint wants it. No matter what happens, he thinks, this is what he wants to do: ease the stress of Phil's life and erase the subtle creases of worry from that famous poker face. This Phil, happy and relaxed, is the one he wants to see at the end of day.

Naked in bed is a bonus, obviously.

"I'm waiting," Phil reminds him, but his voice is loving. 

"Getting to it, sir," Clint says, sprawling between Phil's legs. His own clothes can wait. He takes Phil's cock in one hand and pins Phil's hips with the other arm, and then dips his head to lap at Phil's cock. Phil murmurs appreciatively.

"Every damn time," he says happily.

"Mmm," Clint agrees. God, he loves this: the texture of Phil's skin under his tongue, the heat of Phil's cock and the way it fills his mouth and throat, the salty taste of Phil's arousal. He takes Phil deep, working him over thorougly as Phil groans and falls back into the pillows. 

"It took so damn long to get here," Phil says, gasping already. "You're not an easy mark, Barton."

Clint makes a non-commital noise, muffled by the bulk of Phil's cock. He tongues slowly up Phil's shaft, his eyes closed in bliss at the way Phil shivers under his touch.

"As far as I'm concerned, this is a permanent assignment," Phil says, and Clint hums in agreement. He's obviously not working hard enough if Phil can still talk, but it doesn't take long to make sure that the sounds coming out of Phil's mouth aren't really words, just scraps of words, all from the universal language of pleasure. Every sound Phil makes shoots straight through Clint until it's a struggle not to grind against the bed in rhythm with Phil's groans.

Clint's tongue flickers over the head of Phil's cock, giving him a chance to breathe, and then his fingers drift down to caress Phil's balls as he takes Phil deeper and deeper. Phil groans, his hips rising, and Clint lets up the pressure of his arm, sliding his free hand down to cup Phil's ass. Phil thrusts into his mouth, slowly at first, but then faster and faster as Clint squeezes harder. Clint stays stubbornly braced against the force of Phil's movements. He loves it when Phil lets go, when he takes what he wants from Clint without stopping to ask, because he knows that that's what Clint wants too, to watch Phil come undone. Phil is so careful and thorough; Clint loves to see him mussed and desperate. He licks frantically at Phil's cock, letting Phil know how much he wants this, and Phil trembles.

"Apology accepted," Phil gasps as his hips jerk. Clint holds steady, swallowing as Phil comes, making sure Phil's ridden out every tremor before he lets Phil go and wipes his mouth.

"I should have known we were in a relationship," Clint says, crawling up the bed. "That gets better every damn time. That's gotta be love."

"Who knew blow jobs made you sentimental?" Phil teases.

"I thought you did," Clint says. "I thought you had me all figured out."

"Almost," Phil says. "Barton."

"Mm?" Clint murmurs, kissing Phil's neck.

"Get your clothes off," Phil orders, hands wandering over Clint's body.

"Yessir," Clint says, rolling off the bed. He strips down, watching Phil watch him with appreciative eyes, and then crawls back in next to Phil. "Good talk."

"You're my guy," Phil says. His eyes crinkle as he smiles and Clint feels his heart swell with love.

"Sorry I stressed you out," Clint tells him.

"I'm not stressed anymore," Phil assures him with a kiss. His fingers reach down to stroke Clint's cock and Clint arches into his touch. Phil has damn good hands. He handles Clint just exactly the way Clint wants to be handled, firm and smooth and confident. Phil nudges at Clint until Clint turns over and Phil can spoon up behind him. He kisses the back of Clint's neck and strokes Clint's cock. Clint reaches for the lube on the nightstand and drips a little over Phil's fingers, just to make things easier, and Phil sets his teeth into Clint's shoulder as he takes firmer hold of Clint's cock. Clint groans. He reaches back and caresses Phil's hip and thigh and Phil murmurs and rubs his thumb over the head of Clint's cock until Clint is writhing in pleasure.

"Fuck," Clint swears, half-out of his mind with how good it feels and how fucking much he loves Phil. Phil's skin is warm against his and everytime Phil touches him, the shock sizzles through Clint's body right to his groin, until Clint's blood is crackling with electricity. It's all the delight and excitement of being on a high perch during a storm without the rain and the threat of actual electrocution. 

"You've got a filthy mouth, Barton," Phil says approvingly, his hips nudging against Clint's ass. Phil's half-hard and it feels good. Clint grinds back against him. 

"You fucking love it," he says.

"I can't think of anything about you I don't love," Phil says conversationally. He thrusts gently against Clint's ass as his hand pumps up and down Clint's cock.

"Back at you, boss," Clint gasps. He's about to lose it, any minute now. 

"Let go," Phil growls, and Clint comes hard, right on command. His first thought, when he can reassemble the piece of his brain, is that it's no surprise that Phil can order his body around; the rest of Clint has always obeyed without question.

"Nice one, boss," he says with a little groan. "Can't believe you ever thought for a second that I'd give this up. Or the rest of it."

"Even the faithful need some reassurance once in a while," Phil says, kissing Clint's shoulder.

"Well, you can take it on faith that I'm never gonna give this up," Clint tells him, rolling over to face Phil. "Whether there's a ring on it or not."

Phil quirks an eyebrow at him and directs a significant look at Clint's hand and then Clint's groin.

"Or that kind of ring," Clint says. "Although I'm not sure that would be comfortable for everyday wear, sir. I like the signs of my devotion to be visible to everyone."

"What are you going to tell Natasha?" Phil asks, yawning.

"That you're unexpectedly and exceptionally dirty and a tiger in bed," Clint tells him.

"I'm all right with it if those details stay classified," Phil says. "Although I suspect that what you know, Natasha knows anyway."

Clint rolls over and shoves his face into the pillow. "She can wait until I've asked you the right way."

"She doesn't like waiting," Phil reminds him.

Clint grins. "I know. That's almost the best part."

"Almost?"

"After being with you for the rest of our lives, obviously," Clint tells him. "Get with it, boss. Do I have to give you a sitrep?"

"Yes," Phil tells him. 

"Situation normal," Clint mumbles. " _Not_ fucked up." He considers. "Which is the new normal - forget the old normal. Wedding bells some way off; timetable uncertain but probably inevitable. Certain handlers need to get some damn patience, because it's not like we haven't got the rest of our lives."

"No further information?" Phil teases.

"Plans are on a need to know basis," Clint informs him. "You're not yet cleared for that level."

"And what if I get the drop on you?" Phil asks quietly, idly stroking Clint's back.

Clint yawns. "Then it'll be just like every other day," he says. "God knows I'm used to it."

Phil chuckles, the sound soft and reassuring. "I'll let you have your moment of glory, Barton."

" _You're_ my moment of glory," Clint mumbles, which doesn't make sense, but Phil doesn't seem to mind, from the way he presses himself up against Clint. The last thing Clint knows before he falls asleep is that he's safe in Phil's arms, guaranteed, forever.


End file.
